English, Elizabeth

The Borderlands, 1375

Stealing
sheep was an honorable tradition on the border.
For the poor it was a
means to feed their families, for the rich, an exercise in power. To their sons
it was a game, a test, a way to prove their manhood—a thing you had to do,
whether you wanted to or not. And if you were a Darnley you crossed into
Scotland and stole from the Kirallens, the same as they would steal from you,
given half a chance. The only danger lay in getting back to England ahead of
the pursuit.

Which
was where Haddon Darnley had made his first mistake.

Now
he stood bound and helpless on the raised dais in Kirallen's stronghold, a dagger
pressed to the soft skin of his throat. He closed his eyes and tried to pray,
but the familiar Latin words were all a jumble. So Haddon addressed his Lord
directly, and what his prayer might lack in elegance, it made up for in
sincerity.

"Please
God, don't let Kirallen kill me," he pleaded silently. "I don't know
why he wouldn't, since my father killed his son, but please don't let him,
anyway. Let my father give him what he wants. Anything. Just don't let me die
today. Amen."

In
center of the hall stood Kirallen's Laird himself, a dozen men-at-arms ranged
protectively around him. But Kirallen wasn't looking at his prisoner. His eyes
were fixed on Haddon's father, Lord Darnley, who had come under a flag of truce
to bargain for his son's life.

"We'll
have the Vale," Kirallen said. "And a hundred head of sheep."

"Very
well," Darnley snapped after only the slightest hesitation.

Relief
flooded Haddon, weakening his knees, but before he'd even finished his quick
prayer of thanks, he'd begun to feel a bit insulted, too. A hundred head of
sheep and a swampy bit of land! Is that all they judged him worth? The
restraining hand released him and he staggered a little, then caught his
balance and lifted his chin. He would show them that a Darnley had his pride if
nothing else.

"And,"
Kirallen added casually, almost as an afterthought. "Your daughter."

Haddon
stared about the crowded torchlit hall, seeing his own shock reflected on the
faces of Kirallen's men. Behind him there was a harsh curse, and he was jerked
half off his feet. This time when the blade touched his neck it drew a small
trickle of blood, and the boy froze with a little cry of pain.

Darnley
gave no sign of having heard his son. He threw back his russet head and did the
last thing that Haddon expected. He laughed. Haddon didn't like that laugh; no,
he didn't like it one bit. And neither did Kirallen's men.

"You're
mad," Darnley spat contemptuously.

Kirallen
stiffened. The Scotsman was fully as tall as Darnley, though much older, with
white hair and deep-set eyes that burned with cold intensity as he confronted
his ancient enemy.

What
was Father doing? Haddon wondered with fresh terror. Had he himself gone mad,
insulting the Laird in his own hall? Did he not see Kirallen's men on every
side? They stood like statues, but their eyes were sharp upon the Englishman,
waiting for him to make one move so they might kill him where he stood.

Kirallen
spoke into the waiting silence.

"Our
people have been at war since beyond living memory. Now my Ian lies in his
grave, and I say it is
enough,"
he cried, striking one palm upon
the table. "I
will
see peace before I die, or by Christ's sweet
wounds, I'll see my vengeance. Your daughter will wed my Jemmy—or this boy dies
tonight."

Darnley
stared at a point on the far wall, his thoughts concealed behind a mask of iron
will. Haddon searched his father's face, desperate for a sign of hope, though
he feared that there was no hope to be found. Faced with the choice of losing
either son or daughter, surely Father would put Maude first. He always had
before.

Slowly
Darnley turned and fixed his son with an icy stare. A man can always get
another heir, Haddon thought with chilling clarity. Nothing
I
have done
has ever pleased him. A spasm of terror passed over his slight frame, and he
bit his lip, trying desperately not to cry.

"So
be it," Darnley said at last. "They will wed."

"We'll
have your oath upon it."

Haddon
could scarce believe what he was seeing as his father went down on his knees
right there in the center of the hall, the crackling of the rushes very loud in
the hush. Using his sword hilt as a cross, Darnley swore away his land, his
sheep, and his daughter's hand, his voice tight with fury but very clear.

"The
wedding will take place within the month," Kirallen said. He looked slowly
about the hall, his eyes holding each of his men's in turn. At last he gave a
short nod and swept from the room.

The
dagger flashed before Haddon's eyes, but even as the boy recoiled, it moved
downward and sliced the bonds around his wrists.

"Father—"
Haddon began, scrambling down from the dais and holding out his hands.

"Not
now," Darnley snapped, striding from the hall.

Haddon
followed, his shoulders drooping. This was all his horse's fault. If the damned
nag hadn't startled at a cony, he'd be safely home now and his father would be
welcoming him with pride. As it was... He looked at his father's dark face and
was afraid—and when he thought of what Maude would do he was more frightened
still.

Facing
his sister Maude in a temper was near as bad as anything that had happened to
Haddon today. When she learned what had been agreed upon tonight, her rage
would blister everyone in reach. He suspected that this thought had crossed his
father's mind as well and was responsible for at least part of Lord Darnley's
grimness as he walked briskly from the hall, Haddon following so closely he was
in danger of treading on his father's booted heels. Even Uncle Robert, standing
in the shadow of the doorway, looked serious as the clansmen parted to let them
pass.

Haddon's
horse had bolted when he was thrown, so he rode pillion behind his father. He
was glad to lean against the broad, strong back and close his eyes, dizzy with
both relief at what he had escaped and fear of what was to follow. But at last
he plucked his courage up to ask, "Which one of them is Maude to marry? Is
it the man who held me?"

He
held his breath, waiting for the answer. He wouldn't wish even his sister such
a fate. That one was no man; he was a fiend from Hell, and remembering the
terrible things he'd threatened, Haddon shivered beneath his cloak.

"No,"
Darnley answered. "He wasn't there."

"Jemmy
Kirallen," Uncle Robert said thoughtfully. "That's the second son,
the one who went to sea. I heard a rumor once that he'd turned pirate, but that
was years ago. I thought him dead long since."

"So
did I," Darnley growled. "But no sooner had I rid myself of the
eldest when Kirallen summoned the other back again. I have two men in Berwick
watching for his ship, but now—God's teeth, if I'd had any idea what the old
man was thinking, I'd have sent a dozen. God damn his soul to Hell—I'll kill
him with my own hands before I let him lay one finger on my Maude. Now both of
you shut up and let me think."

Dawn
was streaking the sky by the time they reached Aylsford Manor. When they
dismounted, two grooms who had been watching for their lord's return led the
tired horses to the stables. As the hoofbeats faded into silence, Haddon tried
and failed to meet his father's eyes.

"Get
inside, lad," Darnley ordered. "I'll deal with you tomorrow."

Haddon
walked slowly off, a small defeated figure in the gathering light, and Robert
felt a moment's pity for the lad. He knew his nephew was a gentle boy at heart,
far more interested in books than battle and had only undertaken the adventure
to win his father's notice. Still, no matter what his motives were, the damage
had been done.

"Christ's
wounds, John, but this is a sorry pass!" he said with a mournful shake of
his head, then staggered as Darnley gave him a hearty clout upon the shoulder.

"It'll
be all right," Darnley said and, surprisingly, he grinned. "Come
along, I'm famished."

The
hall was dark, the varlets yawning as they swept the rushes from the floor and
replaced the candles in their holders. By the time Robert reached the narrow,
twisting stairway, Darnley was vanishing around the first corner.

"All
right?"
the knight demanded, his voice echoing from cold stone.
"How can you even say that? To send Maude there—to them—it is
disgusting!"

Darnley
glanced over one brawny shoulder, that strange smile still playing on his lips.
"I promised him my daughter. But you'll ken I didn't say which one."

"You
need to rest," the knight said gently, laying a comforting hand on the
older man's forearm.

Darnley
shook him off impatiently and climbed the stairs at a brisk trot. "I'm not
daft, Robert—just think about it, man. My lady bore one daughter only, but I've
sired several in my day."

They
passed into Darnley's chamber, where his body squire blinked sleepily beside
the fire. Darnley ordered bread and meat and cheese, then waved the boy away.
He walked to the table and poured water from the ewer.